


Requiem

by Pathologic (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Co-Written, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, co-authored
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Pathologic
Summary: Harry Potter returns for his eighth year at Hogwarts but it wouldn't be Hogwarts without a mystery, and Harry soon finds himself drawn into a mystery with an impossible answer.Now with Co-Author.





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The Harry Potter Heptalogy belongs to J.K Rowling. I claim no ownership or rights for any of the characters, locations, etc. I use in the creation of this work of fanfiction. I am making no money.
> 
>  **Prologue Warnings:** Graphic bloody ressurection of an unknown character.

### Part One: Prologue

The wind howls through the trees akin to a demented demon crying out, rustling through the emerald leaves and gnarled creaking branches of the towering wych elms. The forest floor is dotted with tiny star-like flowers, burgundy petals like the richest merlot seem to glow amongst the ferns and brambles. The aroma of thousand-year-old trees rotting on the ground permeates the warm summer breeze, a grave befitting the fairies said to live in this ancient primeval place they walk through. The silver light of the full moon only provides the smallest amount of dappled light through the jewel toned leaves, but even in the dark the forest whispers stories of magic and blood. They walk slowly through the trees, careful not to disturb the flora and fauna, fearful of stepping wrong and disturbing the eerie tranquility. Only the wind and the sound of their steady footsteps fills the forest, as if all the animals have abandoned this place. As they walk, they are watched by hooded crows with glowing eyes, silent sentinels of the otherworld bearing witness to the events soon to take place.

The trees start to thin out, soon giving way to reveal a clearing. The cliff overlooks the great forest, a sheer drop with no hope for survival, bathed in silver light. The moon sits high in the black velvet sky, thousands of glittering stars dancing diamond bright in the cloudless night. The ferns fade out until there is nothing but black stone, as resplendent as the night sky. For a moment, a fraction of a minute, they simply gaze upon the beauty and magic of view, but they don’t have much time.

The silvery white sand is poured steadily into an intricate circular mandala upon the stone, then black sand is poured over it into a circled star. Lofty candlesticks are placed at the points of the star, and the marbled black candles are lit with obsidian flames darker than the night sky. Shadows seep into the clearing like smoke and the sound of fluttering wings rings out in the busy silence and the trees nearest are suddenly filled with so many crows they seem to melt into the shadows. They make no sound, not a single caw, they just stare with glowing burgundy eyes as vibrant as the star flowers on the forest floor.

From the forest comes a group of six, holding up a great wooden casket, still damp and dirty from the grave they pulled it from. Crystals lie in a circle around the ritual space, and then the workers scatter as the six approach. At the center of the ritual circle, they set the casket down, opening it to reveal the corpse inside, rotted and gaunt. Clothing is shed until the thirteen are all bared to the night. They join hands, rounding the ritual circle, and they begin chanting in an ominous humming language, as if singing a low hymn to the afterlife itself.

A woman appears from the trees and the crows begin to caw loudly, the sound drowning out the chanting and the howling of the wind. The circle only breaks for the brief second needed to let her pass, then it is rejoined as they drop in unison to their knees before her. The woman approaches the casket, running dark fingers over the wood, and the wind blows through her snow-white hair as the shadows seem to reach out to her. She raises a great moonstone knife above her head and slams it down into the corpse, then she pulls the heart from his chest, preserved in ways his flesh is not. The woman fills his hollowed-out chest with flowers then stitches him shut. The crows and the chanting fall silent at once and a sound like whispering fills the air.

The woman cuts both hands and lets it drip down onto the pale stitched skin. The moonstone knife is handed off to the nearest of her followers and one by one they slice through each hand and bleed onto the corpse until each has done so. In the eerie silence not even the wind howls. The woman joins the circle, kneeling with her hands holding the rotted heart, and the followers nearest to her grab her upper arms to close the circle again. The chanting picks back up, voices raising higher and higher with each chant until they are screaming the words in a guttural howl. The crows begin to call out with them, their caws loud and otherworldly, mingling with the chanting.

Black fire lights the sand, glowing and ice cold, and the casket rises over the ground as the cacophony falls silent. The wood of the casket burns away, and the corpse rises higher than the flames. There is a moment of silence, then black eyes fly open and the screaming starts. The cliff rumbles, cracks, and the circle is broken as they flee for safety the forest. Only the woman stays in her place at the highest point of the star, as if unaffected by the cliff crumbling under her. The shadows reach out for the fleeing masses and the crows start to fly around them, pecking at them and ripping them apart until all that remains is blood coloring the emerald leaves and black stone.

Then the corpse drops from the sky down into the crevice, which lights up with flames, growling and shrieking rising up from the abyss. The black flames die out, the ground sealing shut, and the woman waits with her brown skin still stained with blood, black as tar in the moonlight. She waits in silence even as all the crows fly away without backwards glances, as the wind picks up again. She waits, kneeling as the sand blows away and the candles melt down to puddles, wax overflowing and cooling down the silver candlesticks. She waits even as her limbs begin to ache from sitting in one position too long, until the moon has begun to set and the sun has started to lighten the sky. Black fading to the darkest blue to the slightest shade of teal on the edge of the horizon. Not yet sunrise, no longer night.

Then, the ground splits, whispering fills the air, and crows swarm around her as black flames and shadows erupt from the cracked stone. From the crevice spills bones and blood, pooling and flooding until it floods in a torrential downpour over the sides of the cliff, down the sloping cliff to the forest behind and below. The woman stands as the flood continues, endless gore spilling up from unfathomable depths. Then the blood stops, leaving the ground slick and red, the woman covered in so much blood she is as red as a devil.

A crow flies down onto her shoulder and the heart in her hands turns to jewel-like stone, like carved garnet polished to shine, clear as glass. The crow caws, then a red hand claws up from the crack. A man crawls out of the ground, screaming and curling in on himself in fetal position. The woman laughs and the sun peaks over the horizon. The crow caws on her shoulder as she squeezes the heart and the man screams and screams.


End file.
